


pray can i not

by ERNest



Series: Put Me In Your Heart For Friend [4]
Category: Hamlet - All Media Types
Genre: Confessions, Discussion of character death, Grief/Mourning, King Hamlet was a bad father and husband, M/M, Past Abuse, Religious Guilt, Suicidal Thoughts, comforting touches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERNest/pseuds/ERNest
Summary: “She… she still won’t let me touch her…” Laertes’s voice was very small and Claudius justcouldn’tstand aloof anymore.
Relationships: Claudius/Laertes (Hamlet)
Series: Put Me In Your Heart For Friend [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901488
Kudos: 2





	pray can i not

“Laertes!” Claudius didn’t notice that he unfolded his fist on the entrance of that noble youth. “I am glad to see thee.” He really was, and his shoulders dropped just a little bit of tension at the sight of his face, stormy as it was. “Well, I hope?”

“Hardly.” That laugh was more of a scoff, and therefore as familiar to Claudius as his own voice, and Laertes drooped into a chair.

“No,” said Claudius. “I suppose not.” He tapped two fingers against the back of his other wrist, casting about for anything that might help him… if not smile, then cease drawing his shoulders so tightly together. “Hast thou broken thy fast yet?” he offered.

“Can’t remember.” His voice was dull and flat. “Does it really matter?”

“Laertes…” He only half-raised his hand, but even if he extended his arm all the way he wouldn’t reach him without stepping closer.

“You’re not my _father!_ ” He curled his fingers back at once. They both knew the oldest common theme was death of fathers, but there was nothing he could do but watch as it hit Laertes again. “I paid my sister another visit.”

“Oh.” The breath that left him was heavy as a deed. He bowed his head and returned both hands behind his back. “Is she…” But how could he continue such a question? Was she sane, safe, happy? Was she even _comfortable_ , anymore? No, that could not be, for if she were any of those things Laertes’s misery would not be sitting on brood like this. “How does Ophelia?”

“She sings of promises broken, of, of — of people who become things they _never_ could have been, and chances lost for good.” Laertes choked on his own words, and threw up his hands, searching for more. “What have you people _done_ to her while I was away?” he demanded, before his spite like wax melted in its own fire. Then he just crossed his arms to keep himself from saying anything more.

And behind his back, Claudius twitched the fingers he held in a fist, while he writhed with guilt. He could say he didn’t know what had happened and it wouldn’t be a lie — the girl’s mind had traveled somewhere impossible to follow. But it had to be his _fault_ somehow, because he couldn’t believe she’d undergone a simple sudden break at the death of her father. He recalled the cool metal under his hands as he looked down over a railing at a sobbing girl, and hoped he would not make the same mistakes with the brother as he had with the sister.

“She… she still won’t let me touch her…” Laertes’s voice was very small and Claudius just _couldn’t_ stand aloof anymore. He crossed the room to him in a few steps, pressing his palms together to ready himself. He lifted a hand near Laertes’s chest and raised an eyebrow to seek confirmation before making contact. It wasn’t quite a nod, but it was a look of understanding, and then invitation.

Claudius noted how Laertes trembled under his fingers and nodded, recalling how beautifully his chest would heave when he was driven to distraction. And maybe that would come again later, if that was where they both led, but for the moment it was all about the touch. The rhythm he used to run his hand down Laertes’s chest was slow and stately, and the youth’s breath steadied to match it. Perhaps soon he would be able to ask more questions and learn how better to help Laertes, how better to help Ophelia. Their trysts were necessary, but Claudius knew these could only carry him so far toward a peace.

Laertes broke through some inner inertia and lunged forward to grasp his arm with both hands. It wasn’t to hurt him, or to push him away, or even to direct his hand. He just kept holding on tight, clearly needing the certainty of something real and solid, a person who wouldn’t flinch away if he cared enough to dare to reach out. So Claudius kept his hand exactly where it was, and perhaps his palm pressed forward to deepen their contact, but mostly he just stayed still for Laertes to cling to him as much as he needed.

When he let out a sob that racked his whole body he looked as surprised at himself as Claudius was each time he remembered the extent and depth of his crimes. He lifted his other hand to touch Laertes’s hair, to run his fingers through it, and to encourage him to release the tears pent up inside him. “There you go…” he murmured in time with the weeping that finally did come. “It falls right, Laertes. It _is_ brave, it is loyal, what response could be more natural?”

Laertes nodded and caught his breath, and though Claudius could see he wasn’t entirely convinced, he was still willing to listen. That was something, it had to be. “Ophelia also… oh G-d! She won’t stop praying for G-d to have mercy on all Christian souls, and it _scares_ me. I think she’s spending more time living with the dead than with the living, and I…” He covered his face with his hand and Claudius let him. “My own _sister_ , and I can’t reach her.”

Claudius looked down at him, then, swaddled in his grief. What could he say, what could he do, that would make any of this stop happening? “I can’t pray!” His hand fell away from Laertes’s chest almost before he heard the admission so grave he’d never said it out loud to _anyone_. Even in his own head he could only really make himself face it when he was trying to bend his own knees, but now here it was, out in the open. The hand he held in the softness of that hair lingered for just a moment longer, letting this be a farewell, if farewell it was.

He took two steps back and hid his hands again, as if that could ever take back how he’d shown them just then. He looked at the ground, he _tried_ to, but couldn’t stop glancing up to see what judgment Laertes would pass on him.

“You…” His voice held more confusion than anything, so it wasn’t instant condemnation. In fact, Laertes wore something very nearly a smirk, that delicate curl of lips. Some truths were too heavy to greet with anything but incredulous laughter, but before that sound could spill out of him and cleave Claudius’s heart in twain, his gaze flattened. He took in the truth of what he’d said and frowned, still not accusingly. “Can’t?” he confirmed.

Claudius steeled himself and finally gave a nod. Oh, oh it was so much worse the second time, when it wasn’t just a blurted-out unmasking of his heart, but a choice to let Laertes see what kind of man he was. But then, hadn’t Laertes already seen him with clear eyes from the moment they both showed their guns and put the safeties back on? It was too _much_ , and his sinews refused to bear him stiffly up.

When he swayed even a little, Laertes leapt up at once to steady him. “Sit down, my king,” he said, steering Claudius by his shoulders to the chair he’d just left. Laertes nodded to himself to see him settled in his place, if still unsettled in his mind. “Good,” he said, “That’s _good_.” To Claudius’s surprise, he dropped down to both knees and brought the king’s knuckles gently to his lips. He took a breath to prepare himself, and then looked up at him, eyes so trusting, open to whatever he would hear. “Wherefore canst thou not?”

“I wish I knew. I’ve been _trying_.” But that was a lie. Claudius knew exactly what had caused this faltering in his faithfulness, even if he couldn’t say why it affected him to this extent when he _knew_ he’d done right. “If I were to pray I’d have to start by confessing, and _that’s_ something I…” He squirmed under eyes more perceptive than those of the angels, but Laertes wouldn’t let him pull his hand away. Whether this was to lend him support or force him to continue, he did not know. “I’m a terrible man, you know that?”

“No,” said Laertes. “Not _so_ very terrible.”

He wouldn’t cry about this, he _wouldn’t_. Let other men feel their grief all though their bodies, but he was a king and everything he was suffering was something he’d brought on himself. Nor would he cry when Laertes shrunk away from him as he inevitably must when Claudius confessed the most horrible of truths. He wouldn’t shrink away from the telling, though, not when he’d come so far already, not when Laertes already knew more of his crimes, even indirectly, than anyone besides the Almighty. This chance would never come again.

“You know that I did not kill your father, and yet I _am_ a murderer.” He felt no lighter for having spoken it out loud, but the crushing weight he’d anticipated did not come. “Worse still, I _can’t_ make myself think it makes me a villain.”

“Oh.” The sound was startled out of him but even that seemed astonished rather than appalled. He shouldn’t feel as grateful for it as he did, when it would only mean he had further to fall when Laertes did decide to walk away. How much more would it _take_? “Who.” he demanded, voice and eyes flat as river stones.

Claudius couldn’t comprehend why he would even need to ask. Wasn’t any murder enough bad enough to instantly condemn him? It was, of course, it had to be, but he knew that some murders were worse than others, worthy to be damned. He could not have hoped to escape admitting this part too and he never did, really. But if he had to stand trial he could think of no better judge and jury than this man both faithful and honorable. And unlike the heavens he would give him an _answer_. “My — my brother,” he choked out, and he hated the cowardice that made his voice tremble on that word.

He had steeled himself for hate, had received enough of it from himself that he knew he could handle it. But nothing could have prepared him for the _hurt_ that flooded Laertes’s face when he heard it. It hit him all over again that this was a person to whom family was more important than _anything_ , except perhaps his own honor and dignity. For all Claudius knew, a brother’s murder mattered more to him than the fact that he had been a king.

All the muscles in Laertes’s hand relaxed, but it stayed where it was and did not fall away. Neither did Laertes fall away from him, and after several seconds his grip tightened, almost enough to hurt. By instinct, Claudius let his arm go rigid so Laertes could use their connection to haul himself to his feet. And he still didn’t let go and didn’t let go as he looked down at Claudius to inspect him in full.

“Why did you this act?” His voice was almost tender. It was too much to stand: his free hand crept behind his back again and his eyes crept down toward his knees. “No, I mean it.” His fingers moved towards Claudius’s jaw before he changed his mind. “ _Look_ at me,” he said instead, almost pleaded. He reminded himself that he wasn’t going to cry, and dared to meet his eyes. “I really want to hear it from you.”

And Claudius, he realized, really wanted Laertes to hear. As long as he kept that whole awful lonely period of his life under lock and key he could bear it, nearly, but now the doors were broke and if he didn’t keep talking now it might kill him. But more than that, this was _Laertes_ , and Claudius wanted him to hear.

“When… when you charged into my palace, all full of that beautiful rage, you called me a vile king, and I won’t deny that I have my moments, but my brother — truly — was a vile king, full of threats to all. And yet the people _adored_ him, looked at the warlike state he’d made of our once fair Denmark and called it good. Not to mention the endless drinking games! They’re not even fun or worthwhile, but that’s the first thing anyone from neighboring countries thinks of when they think of Denmark. It’s _disgraceful_ ,” he added, shaking his head ruefully. He saw Laertes nodding his head in slowly dawning comprehension and he could have left it there; he almost did.

But this was his one chance and if he was going to be honest he had to be _honest_ , about all of it. “I wish I could say that was my reason — my only reason, or my most important reason. All these flaws were things that the general gender readily saw in him, and saw fit to countenance and excuse. But what _no one_ saw, what those of us who were _there_ for it could scarcely believe—”

He couldn’t continue right away; this was something he always knew he was not to say, because the blame would land on him, because the truth could only hurt Gertrude more, because it wasn’t _polite_ to say it. “He was a wicked ruler to be sure, but he was a worse man. A worse brother, a worse husband, and a worse—” He looked at Laertes, begging him to understand because he knew he would. “A worse _father_ , too.”

“ _Oh_ ,” said Laertes softly, eyes gone wide and hurt _for_ Claudius, not by him. He was a perceptive man, he could read between the lines, and family was important to him. “So you took matters into your own hands?”

Claudius nodded miserably. “And now they’re thicker than themselves in brother’s blood. I — I tried _not_ to, Laertes! For years I resisted being the exact kind of man I’ve now become, but maybe I was always just _this_.” He gestured at himself disgustedly. “If it had just been me I could have handled it, I knew how to take it because it was never _personal_ , I was just there. But his wife and son never deserved all that and I tried, I tried so hard to be there for them.” He shook his head. “ _Stupid_ of me. Hamlet always loved his father too much to ever see how much he scared him. Of course there was no way we could have become friends. And Gertrude… if I told her _any_ of this, it would break her heart. Until finally…” He sighed, threw up a hand. “I _had_ to.”

“Had to,” Laertes repeated, but with no censure in his voice. This was how he had received the information of Young Hamlet’s perfidy as well, turning over each new revelation with his own mind and his own tongue, so he could feel out for himself what he believed. It was something to admire and Claudius did, when he wasn’t terrified of it. Laertes lifted his hand again to approach Claudius, but once more retreated. He must have known what a blow that would be, because he squeezed the hand he still held and offered him a fleeting smile. Claudius watched him finger something in his pocket, frowning slightly at whatever it signified. But it seemed to make up his mind because he gave a fortifying sigh and with no more hesitation at all clasped Claudius on the shoulder.

“Sometimes…” he said carefully, “You have to do the immoral thing. Or, you have to be prepared to do it, if it comes down to it. Because sometimes—” He seemed on the verge of confessing something of his own before he let it go. “The consequences of _not_ doing it can be even worse.”

Claudius nodded gratefully. The consequences of doing nothing would have been worse, _had_ been for so long. It wasn’t approval, _couldn’t_ be understanding, but it was acceptance and he needed that even more.

“Tell me, please. If — if you can, you don’t _have_ to, but. How did you do it?”

“I almost didn’t. The poison was _there_ in my hands, and I turned away.” He heard again the dreadful rushing in his ears on that terrible afternoon and the only way to get rid of the lump in his throat was to speak past it. “Because I knew it would damn me, if I weren’t damned already just for considering it. Because there was no way I wouldn’t get caught, because if _somehow_ I got away with it I’d have to hide for the rest of my life and I’d spent so long hiding already. Because he was my _brother_ and I couldn’t manage to hate him entirely. Because he might wake up — G-d! He might wake up, he might wake up, he’ll _catch_ me, and then _I’ll_ be the one who dies here—”

“My lord. My _lord!”_ Laertes must have been calling for him for some time, with how frantically he repeated the words. The circles he rubbed on Claudius’s back were grounding enough that he could _almost_ remember how to breathe normally. “He’s not here. He’s not going to wake up and _no one_ is going to hurt you. Oh, my lord…” A note of sorrow crept into his voice, a compassion that was impossible to bear. “I don’t blame you for needing to kill him, if just talking about him does this. And… I don’t blame you for needing to turn away, either. You don’t have to say anything more.”

But he _did_ have to; there was no way to stop himself now. “The leprous distillment takes two weeks to brew — time enough to change my mind a dozen times. I’d think, maybe he wasn’t so bad, maybe this was a mistake, maybe I hadn’t gone too far yet, maybe I could still _stop_ it, but then I’d see another one of his countless petty cruelties and I’d know I was doing — maybe not the right thing, but the only supportable thing. Most of the time I’d at least get as far as the garden, sometimes even close enough to see him sleeping there, but there was one time I destroyed the poison before it was anywhere near lethal. I don’t — _know_ — how many times I tried and failed and tried and failed, but it would never be long before I’d have to hear Gertrude’s sobs again and I’d make up my mind. I — it stopped feeling real, I never made it real, so when I finally did it, I didn’t believe I could have, it must have been some horrible dream. Even when they found him dead — because didn’t it make more sense for it to be a serpent than someone like me? It wasn’t like I’d told anyone what I was planning to do, how _could_ I have, so how could I make it feel real?” He had to laugh, just a little. “I poured it in the porches of his ear because that man _never_ listened, but at the very end I made him hear me. And that — that’s all.”

The silence that followed his rush of words was total, and the longer it dragged out the more he recalled just what those words had been. Something dawned on him which should by all rights have been the horror of being thus exposed, but might have been some bizarre relief for the same. Here in front of him was someone who knew more of him than any other person in the world.

Laertes had the power to revile him or release him, to cast him away or clutch him close, but why would he choose the latter? If he did, though, if Laertes kept his secrets, then they could continue to be something like a team, partners in greatness. He wanted that dearly, probably too dearly when it was so much more likely that Laertes was going to betray him.

But then, it would be a betrayal of _what_ exactly, when they weren’t anything to each other, really? Laertes must consider it treason _not_ to turn him in, and the fact that he hadn’t already might be kindness or might be the lingering shock of revelation. He did not know which it was, but he knew he had to release them both from the spell his confession had cast on them.

Claudius began to disentangle their fingers, but Laertes told him, “No.” He lifted his hand once more to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of it, firm and gentle as a promise. He felt his eyes narrow in confusion, but there could be no confusion in the way Laertes pulled him in and clung tight to his back, a hug that both lent and borrowed comfort.

He still held himself carefully, probably trying not to overwhelm him, but right then Claudius _wanted_ to be overwhelmed. The hand that was not still held like a treasure, he twisted in the front of his shirt, and pulled him further down, further in. Laertes was large and solid and when Claudius rested his face against the cloth of his sweater he smelled nothing like a garden and everything like himself.

Neither of them spoke, they’d said everything that needed to be said for now, and now they only needed this beautiful contact which must like all things come to an end, but not just yet. Claudius could feel himself shaking but the tremors were absorbed by Laertes and his steady frame. If he shed a few tears, those would be absorbed too by black fabric, and he didn’t think Laertes would mind. How strange to feel secure. How strange not to feel alone. He held onto those feelings.

“Claudius,” Laertes broke the silence softly and he looked at him in wonder. His name wasn’t used too often anymore and from that hopeful serious face, it really meant something. “Will you share my bed tonight? Or sooner than that if you want. I know _I_ need it, and I don’t presume to speak for you, but…” Laertes trailed his fingertips along Claudius’s neck and smiled as he shivered. “I bet you could use it just as much. Give yourself an outlet and a new focus, isn’t that what you said?”

Claudius nodded slowly and, taking care to betray nothing in his tone, he said, “I’ve been wanting to find out if I could fit my whole hand inside of you, what do you think?”

“ _Oh!_ ,” said Laertes. “G-d, yes. Please, let’s try it,” and Claudius smirked.

“But come away.” It was so easy to steer the youth a little back when he was pleasantly shocked like this, and after he stood up he took care to straighten his jacket. “We both need to eat something first. I’ll have sandwiches brought."

“My dread lord.” Laertes's bow was most courtly, but he grinned like he couldn’t possibly stop. “I will be glad to share your table.”


End file.
